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— Stop! — the word burst out of Amanda before she even understood why she said it. It slipped out instinctively, as if she needed to hold back time, stop someone else’s steps, or at least that shadow that fell sharp under the sunlight on the beige wall behind her.
— Amanda, what now? — the man in the suit turned, irritation in his voice. It was Dr. Richards from the clinic, the same one who, a year ago, had read out her results: “the final stage of transformation is complete.” His dry words back then had split her life into “before” and “after.”
And now he stood right in front of her, but over the past year their relationship had gone through countless twists and turns, the main one of which still remained hidden from everyone.
— Say it, — the words slipped out of Amanda almost in a whisper, yet they carried a demand. — Say that back then, you didn’t have anyone else but me.
Dr. Richards frowned. His expensive dark-gray suit caught the sun slightly, but his gaze stayed cold, analytical.
— Amanda… — he said her name as if it was still a mask to him, not her real essence. — You do understand the position we both ended up in.
She lifted her chin. The sunlight hit her eyes directly, and she had to squint.
— I want to hear the answer. Not as a patient, but as… — she faltered, feeling her breasts push hard against the fabric of her tight dress. — As a person who lost everything.
The doctor took a slow breath and folded his arms across his chest.
— You’re talking about that day in Chicago.
Amanda nodded sharply.
— Yes. That time when we… — she turned away, biting her lip, feeling shame burn her cheeks. A year. She had already been in this body for a year, but the memory of that night still scorched her stronger than the blazing sun.
Dr. Richards stayed silent. His face remained unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed that Amanda’s words were hitting the sorest spot.
— Amanda, — he spoke dryly, as if weighing each letter. — What happened in Chicago… you do realize, it was never supposed to get out.
No one would believe it now, looking at Amanda Walker, this petite girl in a tight dress, that just a year ago she weighed over a hundred kilos, wore a Chicago Cubs cap, and argued in a rough bass voice about baseball at the corner bar on 47th Street under the name Stephen.
They both went silent. Dr. Richards began to turn away, but Amanda called out to him again.
— Wait! — her voice broke into a desperate cry, and a passing woman on the sidewalk shot her a quick, judgmental look. Amanda felt heat rush to her cheeks in a wave, but it was too late to step back. — You didn’t answer.
Richards stopped, his shoulders twitching slightly.
— Amanda, we can’t talk about this here, — he muttered through his teeth, still half-turned toward her.
— I’m not leaving until I hear it! — she stepped closer, her thin heels clicking sharply against the stone tiles. The fabric of her black dress stretched over her hips, her breasts rising with the weight of her breath. She knew: right now she didn’t look like the “former Steven,” but like a woman impossible to ignore. And that very knowledge made the situation even more humiliating.
— John, I want to know the truth, — she said firmly, staring straight into his eyes. — I want to know: back then, was I… the only one for you?...Full story (9 000 characters - 3 parts) is open to subscribers here or on Patreon